“Powder-puff punch!” again shouted the disgruntled fan.
“Did ya hear that?” hissed Garrieau, twisting his mouth into an apish grin. “Yo can’t hit hard enough to break an egg. I’m goin’ to fix dose teet’ for you now.” He leered brutally as he tore after Donald, disdainful of the belittled left.
Donald stopped abruptly in his flight and shot a lightning left across to his pursuer’s jaw. The champion saw it coming, but too late to block it. He threw his body into reverse, robbing the blow of a great deal of its force; yet enough was left to send him reeling back to the ropes, his head whirling and his knees wobbly. With a roar the spectators came to their feet as one man. The gong saved Garrieau.
The crowd gave Donald a deafening ovation as he walked to his corner. He looked for his friends and saw Douglas and Gillis locked in an embrace and dancing madly in the narrow aisle.
“Pretty near got ’im that time, Donnie!” cried Andy gleefully. “If you can get ’im to lift ’is jaw off ’is shoulder, send in your right.” Andy’s hands were shaking with excitement, while Donald was cool and collected.
“Let me go after him, Andy,” he begged; “I can whip him at his own game.”
“No, no!” admonished Andy, “keep on as you are. Don’t try to swap punches with ’im!”
Garrieau’s seconds were working over him feverishly. Pursell leaned over the heavily-breathing champion, his evil face sick with apprehension.
“What’d I tell yer?” he exclaimed. “They’ve stuck a ringer in on us; dat feller ain’t no amachoor! If he beats ya we’re both bums! Foul him dis round, for de——” he finished with a savage oath.
At the beginning of the third round Garrieau charged his elusive adversary like a mad bull. Donald easily side-stepped him and he plunged into the ropes. As he rebounded, Donald landed a left and danced safely away without reprisal.